20 October 2024
Western Air Defense Sector — Near Mount Rainier, Washington
Morning hum.
Screens and vents.
Green on black.
The normal workdays.
Or is it?
Amara Whitaker sips burned coffee her headset feels heavy, the previous night was nothing but a nightmare thankfully it's gone, but the feeling isn't.
"Whitaker" Lt. Kline says from his doorway "Report."
His office smells like paper and old air, has stack of forms sits on his desk.
"Write it up clean" he continues.
He slides a printed template across the desk.
Subject: AAN‑19OCT — LOCAL WEATHER REFLECTION
Notes:
Balloon cluster.
Temperature inversion.
No radar integrity.
Amara looks at the memo then looks back at him.
"Sir" she says firmly, "weather doesn't skip like stones."
He doesn't answer just looks her for a while and taps the stamp once on the ink pad like a habit he can't break.
"Stick to the memo Amara" he says. "Don't freelance and send it to Comms once you're done."
Back at her console she opens the report form and looks at it for a good 5 minutes.
She types the official words in the official boxes but her hands feel wrong on the keys, the weather excuse sounds crazy to her.
She clicks Attach.
She points at her manual clip.
Access denied.
A pop‑up replaces the file name:
Your attachment has been removed by policy.
She tries again and again yet the same message every time.
She checks the server for last night's manual capture.
Missing.
'Why am I not surprised the weather did that too apparently' she thinks to herself.
She pulls out her notebook instead, paper and pen the good old way where nothing goes missing or deleted out of nowhere.
She writes what the memo won't hold.
Nine lights.
Skipped like stones.
Numbers: 33.394 / 104.523 / 14.
In her headset, a thin hiss then one soft word, buried in the noise.
"Help."
She looks up immediately yet no one flinches the room was as quiet as always.
She flips the report form back up.
In the final box Recommendations she types one line.
Wait fourteen minutes.
She hits Send this time it got submited but the screen blinks one last time, another pop‑up:
Your note has been edited for clarity.
She opens the file again and sure enough her line is gone.
The red stamp sits at the top: DO NOT DISTRIBUTE.
She prints a copy for herself anyway and writes by hand across the bottom edge, small and neat:
Not weather.
Kline leans out again. "All done?"
"All done" she says.
In the break room, vending machines buzz under bright lights, Maya waits by the far one, arms crossed, eyes on the ceiling camera like it might blink.
"They pulled my clip" Maya says, voice low afraid someone will hear her. "From the server it's Gone."
"Mine too" Amara says.
Maya's mouth quirks. "I mirrored it last night. Old habit."
They stand shoulder to shoulder, coins clinking down the metal chute.
The machine rattles but nothing falls.
"Let's make our own file then" Maya says. "One they can't delete."
"How?" Amara asks.
"Paper first" Maya says, tapping Amara's notebook "Screens after."
They agree on rules, easy and plain:
Record it.
Time‑stamp it.
Wait fourteen.
Don't chase.
Don't shoot.
Don't argue online just show it.
They spin up a small group chat on their phones under the name: Circle14.
Five people to start : Amara, Maya, two techs they trust, one tower spotter who never sleeps.
First message was from Maya: Report only inside this chat. no leaks yet and be careful we don't know what are we working with yet.
Amara draws a small circle on a sticky note and writes 14 inside it and she sticks it to the inside cover of her notebook.
As they split, Maya texts: Check under your door when you get home.
Amara walks to the lot, the mountain sits in the distance like a dark thought.
The wind feels like rain that isn't coming.
Her apartment is the same as always.
Stubborn lock, quiet room with the fridge hum stutters once like it misses a step.
There's an envelope under the door.
Plain has no name on it and heavy for how thin it is.
She carries it to the table and opens it with her thumb inside it were :
A small brass key, rubbed smooth with time, has a number stamped into it: 312.
A yellowed bank slip: Desert Trust Roswell.
A torn scrap with three numbers: 14–14–14. A second scrap with coordinates, written like she's seen them before: 33.394° N, 104.523° W.
Her phone buzzes.
Unknown number:
Don't trust the memo.
She sets the phone down and opens the closet. She pulls out the shoebox and lays it all out in a line like evidence in a quiet case.
Badge: Deputy Carl Whitaker.
Polaroid: a perfect ring pressed into dirt.
Map: New Mexico, a circle near Roswell with the same numbers in the margin.
Cloth: REVIVAL.
She adds the brass key next to the badge, the pieces look like they belong together.
She says it out loud to the empty room, just to hear it.
"Roswell."
Her phone buzzes again.
Soon 14.
The hum in the walls settles. The clock on her wall ticks steady.
Then, for one beat, it skips. Then it keeps time.
Amara sits she knows that this is a familiar thing, she opens her notebook to a clean page and writes a title across the top:
Open File.
Under it, she copies the rule in big letters, with space around it like it needs room to breathe:
Wait fourteen minutes.
She underlines it twice.
She draws a small circle and writes 14 inside it. She tears the page in half and pins the half with the circle to the wall above her desk with a pushpin. One more pin goes into a printed map of the country one at Rainier, one at Roswell.
She opens her laptop and starts a simple map file too with Two pins and two dates.
Rainier : 19 Oct 2024 - Nine lights.
Roswell : 02 July 1947 - Ring.
She types three words at the bottom of the note page and taps the pen after each word like a beat:
We don't shoot our own.
Her phone sits face up beside the notebook.
She sets a timer for 14:00 and lets it run and keeps on listening to the seconds go soft around the edges as they tick down then when it hits zero, nothing breaks.
She exhales anyway.
She didn't even realize that she was holding her breath like that.
The room smells like paper and dust and old coffee, the key sits on the table she picks it up.
Circle14 pings.
Maya: You good?
Amara: Good.
Maya: Rule stands?
Amara: Rule stands, Record, tme‑stamp and wait fourteen minutes.
She slides the brass key into the shoebox and leaves the lid off.
The badge catches the light with the cloth's letters look darker at night.
Her screen lights once more with a new message from the unknown number:
14 minutes is safety.
She doesn't reply, she knows that she doesn't need to and can't even if she wants to. She turns off the big light and lets the small lamp throw a circle on the wall. The circle with 14 in it looks like a target and a promise at the same time.
The building breathes, the fridge hums.
Somewhere far away, a storm pulls static across its skin like a blanket.
Somewhere else, a ring waits in sand until the wind covers it and uncovers it again.
Amara closes her eyes for a count of fourteen and opens them.
The open file waits on the table.
The key sits in the box.
The map has two pins.
Tomorrow will bring more memos, more stamps, more neat words for messy things and hopefully more answers.
Tonight she keeps what won't fit inside them.
Wait fourteen minutes.
She writes it once more at the bottom of the page and presses the pen down until the line goes dark.